


They Always Seem Nice in the Beginning

by Okay_Strudel



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe, Jared is kind of offensive, M/M, Original Character(s), Slow Burn, Superpowers, tags/archive warnings might change as story develops, teen and up rating is mostly because he cusses a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-03-16 12:05:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13635954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Okay_Strudel/pseuds/Okay_Strudel
Summary: I relax and thumb open the folder with a half smile, praying for a hot girl. Or guy. I don't discriminate. The first page reads “Evan Hansen," in all caps and everything. Okay, hot guy it is. I cross my fingers for someone at least like, mildly sexy. I skip through most of the information and shit in hopes of finding a picture, and-- after around three pages of meaningless text-- I'm rewarded with a crappy headshot of an admittedly half attractive dude. He's not a sex icon or anything, but he's sorta cute, in a dorky, soft way. He kind of looks like he's dying, though. He's sweating profusely, and his hands grip the sleeves of his shirt like a lifeline, or two, I guess.So, this is the sucker who got matched with me in that stupid compatibility test. I plaster on my best smirk and pray I'll make a good first impression on the half attractive possible arranged husband God has blessed me with.--Jared swears he's never doing that friendship thing again, but when he's shipped off to a camp that helps teens repress their superhuman abilities, he'll find it's easier said than done.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the title is probably temporary, guys

Camp Freakshow is a lot friendlier than I expected. I'm not sure what I was imagining exactly. Maybe kids being dragged through the halls screaming, creepy experimentation labs, blood on the floor... something crazy. To be fair, I _have_ seen more blood today than in probably the rest of my life combined, but that's just because the kid who got stuck next to me on the bus has a near constant nosebleed. I spent the whole trip pressed against the dirty window, trying to avoid the smell of iron and tears. It was a long trip, too. It's like they were trying to ship us out to the most obscure place on the damn planet. This mountain is in the middle of fucking nowhere. Of course, my pathetic, sniveling bus-buddy tried to chat me up about it like it was a tourist trap or something.

“You ever been?” He had the nerve to ask. No, I've never been. I've never heard of Mt. Fujihakashit in my life, Thomas, and I can't imagine you've been taking yearly vacations to the place. It's like a different world, and not in a good way. It's the kind of place people only go when they're out of options. When they have no choice.

Anyway, they've deposited us in a room somewhere near the entrance of the camp-- the scary kind of entrance, with tall, wrought-iron gates and more security than the fucking white house-- and we're currently being sized up by a preppy blonde woman with a clipboard. She's smiling really stupidly wide, and it's creeping me out. Everything about this place creeps me out. Even the chairs. They've set up about forty chairs in a weird, cramped circle. I assume they're for us to sit in while we go through the dreaded “icebreakers” later today. Christ, I thought I'd finally escaped that crap. It's always so nightmarishly boring, and useless, and to make matters worse the circle of chairs they've arranged at the back of the rooms is starting to look more like some means of summoning Satan himself by the second. 

“Alrighty, you kiddos can go ahead and find yourselves a place to sit,” blondie says, clearing her throat and grinning impossibly wider. I shudder. “Make sure you stick with your bus-buddy! You'll be seeing a lot of them over the next few years.”

I stare Thomas down in a way I can only hope is menacing. He shifts away from me nervously and rubs at his nose. His eyes widen as his hand comes away bloody yet again, almost guiltily. Serves him right. He's probably aggravating it by fussing over it so much. I let out a little huff of annoyance and start to make my way towards the circle, which is quickly filling out with kids of all shapes and sizes. I'm feeling relatively nice, so I motion for Thomas to follow me as I walk, muttering, “Well, don't just stand there. Let's get this over with.”

Thomas scurries after me. Good. He's the kind of guy who doesn't need to hear something twice. Maybe spending the rest of my high school career in close proximity to this freak won't be as unbearable as I thought. I drop into a seat with feigned confidence, waiting for Thomas to join me and checking out the crowd while I'm at it. A few people stand out: twins, a super short boy in bright blue rainboots, a girl with a really pinchy nose and badly applied mascara... etcetera, etcetera, people are all the same really. Even the ones that catch my attention in some way or another. They blend together, both in the moment and in my memories. I never remember anyone. Not anymore.

The prepmaster smooths out her skirt and edges her way into the circle, clutching a few thousand plain, manila folders in her right hand. I suddenly feel like we're at some sort of anonymous support group. She clears her throat again, and starts to speak. I'm too busy wondering why her shoes are so fucking tall to catch the first half of what she says. “... so of course, we've tried to find a perfect match for each and every one of you. Try not to complain within the first few weeks. Or months, really. Stick it out, and you might see why we found you compatible eventually, you know?”

I blink. What is this, an arranged marriage? I mean, at least we're not breaking the ice or whatever. If I have to list my three favorite things and play weird memory games with people's names one more time, I'll actually drink bleach. I startle a little when a folder suddenly lands in my lap, but I try to play it off as excitement. It's better to be the weirdo who gets off on looking through documents and shit than the weak, nervous kid who's scared of paper. Besides, I actually am a bit curious about the contents of this thing. I'd like to see what kind of person gets stuck with Jared Kleinman on a compatibility test.

Blondie is handing other people their folders, and suddenly I can't stop thinking about the fact that she somehow knows exactly who to deliver each folder to. Does she know the name of every single person in the room? That's unlikely. I'm perplexed for a solid two minutes before I realize we're wearing nametags. Duh. I relax and thumb open the folder with a half smile, praying for a hot girl. Or guy. I don't discriminate. The first page reads “Evan Hansen,” in all caps and everything. Okay, hot guy it is. I cross my fingers for someone at least like, mildly sexy. I skip through most of the information and shit in hopes of finding a picture, and-- after around three pages of meaningless text-- I'm rewarded with a crappy headshot of an admittedly half attractive dude. He's not a sex icon or anything, but he's sorta cute, in a dorky, soft way. He kind of looks like he's dying, though. He's sweating profusely, and his hands grip the sleeves of his shirt like a lifeline, or two, I guess. 

I scan the room for him and find him near the back, hunched over his folder. He's still studiously reading every word of the few pages before you get to the picture. I snort. Yep, he's definitely a dork. Then, after a few fluttery beats of hesitation, I stand up and stride over to him. At least, I hope I'm striding. I've spent a good decade trying to master the cool guy stride. I plaster on my best smirk and pray I'll make a good first impression on the half attractive possible arranged husband God has blessed me with.

“Hansen. It's me, your soulmate, as determined by a vague superhero prison school compatibility test,” I drawl, waving a hand in front of his face and snickering at the way he immediately hurls his folder onto the ground in an odd, surprised little fumble. Papers spill out of it, throwing Hansen into even more of a panic, and I'm about to lean down and help him gather them up when he throws himself in front of me, wide eyed and near hyperventilating.

“No no no no no no, that's, that's really not necessary! Um, wait, J-Jared? Kleinman? Oh my gosh I'm sorry, I'll just,” Evan gasps, making desperate grabs for his scattered paperwork and honest to god tearing up. My amused expression melts into a frown at his obvious distress. Why is he so on edge? It's not like I'm a particularly intimidating guy. I can pretend, sure, but who am I really fooling? I'm short. I wear awkward, nerdy glasses. I dress... to be frank, badly. I'm pudgy around the edges, like I eat junk food, which I do. I sound like Spongebob, adult swim edition.

Evan looks up at me like I'm just the most terrifying thing he's ever seen and I hate his guts. It's disconcerting. It throws me off a bit. “Hey, uh... it's fine, dude. And yeah, that's me. The one and only, insanely cool Jared Kleinman!” I trail off into a cackling sort of laugh. Evan smiles faintly, finally tucking the last slip of paper back into his folder.

He straightens up a little too rigidly, and I observe him subtly, since I can get a good look at him now. He has soft hair. Nice freckles. He's very clean shaven. Evan flushes, and I realize maybe I haven't been subtle enough. Oh well.

“So, what exactly are we doing? I wasn't really paying attention,” I admit, as casually as possible. I want to appear careless. Effortless. Evan stumbles over his response, which is a short summary of our schedule for the next few days and why exactly we have partners now. Evan is not effortless. I don't mind, but I get the sense he does, and I get that. I really do.

“I mean, I mean basically... it's just a way to make sure t-that we don't not have fun and throw some kind of, some kind of strike or something? About how boring it is? I think it's sort of a training thing or a bonding exercise or I don't know,” Evan rambles, and I nod along absentmindedly. It makes sense. Well, almost. I still think it's kind of stupid, but I don't tell Hansen that, because he'll freak out and think I hate him all over again and I really just want to go to sleep.

Which is why I don't bother to look over the rest of my “Evan Hansen” folder when the blonde lady finally shows us to our rooms. I'm pooped. My roommate, Thomas-- the bloody nose kid-- doesn't seem tired at all. I'm kept up by the bright glow of his reading light burning through my eyelids, as well as the soft but insistent muttering of poems and scientific passages. I'm not sure why I have to room with the weirdo who reads aloud to himself at like two in the morning, of all people. When I do manage to get some sleep, my dreams are angry, disjointed flickers of Thomas, stupid, _bloody_ Thomas, and I wake up feeling even worse somehow.

I eat breakfast facing the back wall. The preppy blonde lady has been replaced by a tall, stubbly man with thick legs and a chest that curves inward. He preaches about the dangers of superhuman abilities from a podium that's really too small for his body, but I'm not listening, or looking at him, for that matter. I engage the pimply looking cafeteria wall in a staring contest, and maybe it's just my brain's way of boosting my ego, but I swear I win. Evan Hansen pushes his cereal around in a ceramic bowl-- it looks like he brought the damn thing here with him-- across from me. It's insulting, really, to watch him waste food like that. I don't like people who throw perfectly good food out. Compatible my ass.

I'm about to call him out on it when we're suddenly ushered out of the lunchroom in a sloppy, bulging line. It's all I can do to shove the last of my waffles in my face and not trip over my own feet. I'm still mourning the loss of my remaining two slices of bacon, so I don't realize for a minute that the stupid tall guy is talking again, saying we'll be participating in some kind of morning talk-meditation ritual with our partners. When I do, I'm dumbfounded. Talk-meditation? What the shit? How is any of this supposed to get rid of our powers anyway?

Evan sits perfectly still, criss cross applesauce, hands rested neatly on his knees. I try to mimic him, but find it more uncomfortable than you'd expect, and end up trying to bullshit my way through things as usual. The coach person doesn't seem to notice, and I suck in a breath and pray it'll stay that way, and then, “Hi.”

My eyes fly open. It's just Evan. He looks pretty relaxed. I'm almost jealous. I wonder where he learned to do this. If he learned to do this. Maybe he's just a natural, I mean, is that so hard to believe? He leans in a little, like he's about to tell a secret, and he has this shy secretive sort of smile on his face, but all he says is, “It's, uh, nice outside, isn't it?”

I notice that we are, indeed, outside. It's okay, I guess. Nothing too special. There's like, a pretty cool looking tree. Evan looks like he's appreciating the tree. What a fucking loser. I turn my gaze back to the tree, which is kind of jagged, but the bark looks pretty smooth, and wow, I bet that would be nice to touch. Like those white china teapots my mother used to collect. Cool, like water from the tap when it's wintertime, and a little silky. Like milk. Those teapots always reminded me of milk. My grandmother was big on milk. She made me drink a fuck ton of it, because it gives you strong bones or whatever. I wonder if Evan has strong bones. Does Evan like milk?

I look back at Evan, whose eyes are closed again. He looks kind of frail. He probably doesn't drink a lot of milk. To be fair, milk tastes kind of weird, and if you think about it, it comes from a cow's nipples, all warm and stuff. I grimace. Yeah, I don't like milk.

“So, uh... what are we supposed to talk about, exactly?” I ask, stilted and tired. I don't sound effortless. Evan doesn't seem to mind, though. I wonder if it would be weird to ask him what he thinks about milk. I decide it would probably be weird, so I don't ask, but I can't really think of anything else to say. I wish Evan would talk, if just to fill up the empty space in the air. I wonder why he's so good at meditating. I don't like sitting still. I'm always in motion, inside and out.

He pauses, hesitates, looks almost scared for a half a second, and then he tells me exactly why he's so good at meditating. Way too quickly. “I used to do, um, the meditating thing all the time at home. For my anxiety. My therapist reccomended it.”

Evan lifts one hand to his lips, a look of wonder and embarrassment settling over his face as he looks from my face to the ground to the tree and back again. I curse under my breath. I've never been very good at controlling my ability. You could say I inspire the truth in people, in a way. I get them to say things they never would otherwise.

“I apologize for that... slip up,” I comment breezily, trying not to make a bigger deal out of this than absolutely necessary. “It's kinda my power, you know, making people say what they're thinking. Sometimes it just activates, without me even really wanting it to.”

There's a short period of silence, during which I study Evan carefully. He looks half horrified and half thoroughly awed. When he looks away after a rather intense minute of eye contact, I can't help thinking _tell me what's wrong,_ and immediately Evan blurts out, “I've only ever used my power once! And I know we're not supposed to use our powers, but I want, I want to. Use mine. And it's really... it's so cool you can just do that, but also I'm scared you'll make me say something I don't want to and I'm r-really freaking out.”

I can feel a lopsided grin forming on my face. He's cute when he's all flustered. Evan clearly disagrees-- I can see the regret and terror in his scrunched up nose, his shaking body, his tight, forced breathing. He's cute, though, and I'm kind of really relieved that I'm the one with the weird, truth-extracting powers and not Evan, because I'd hate to hear myself say _that_ aloud. I'm too proud for such things. Too scared. I'm scared shitless most days, of almost everything.

So instead of telling Evan he's cute, or telling him it's okay, or that I obviously don't hate him because why would I hate him he seems like a really cool guy, I snicker and cross my arms like I can't really cross my legs and make a snarky, mean, classic Jared comment. Something like, “Gee, no need to get so worked up. You look like you're gonna jizz yourself.” I feel guilty. Evan looks about twice as embarrassed as before. 

“Meditation-talk is over, folks. If I were you, I'd head back to my room and get dressed in something proper. Class starts at ten,” the man from before announces, big and booming, and I dust myself off and do as I'm told for once. On the way back to my room the guilt starts to morph into something more akin to spite. There's no way this Hansen guy is as nice as he looks, anyway. Everyone looks nice in the beginning. I've got to stop being so trusting, unless I want a repeat of the Warren fiasco. No one screws over the asshole. No one abandons the guy with no friends. I resign myself to a life of bitter solitude. 

To my disgust, Thomas is sitting on his bed when I walk in, jacking off. He startles and pulls the covers over himself, red faced and dissatisfied. What a fucktard. At least his nose stopped bleeding. I brush past him without a word, making my way over to my dresser. I realize he must have skipped breakfast as I'm pulling a bright orange shirt over my head, and I wonder what his partner did during meditation-talk.

Classes are pretty much the same as always, to my surprise. We have one extra class about repressing your powers and shit, so the school day runs longer than it did back home, and Evan joins me in literally every class I'm taking, but other than that it's a mirror image of the school I attended before I came here. I eat lunch with Evan as well, and I finish off his peanut butter and honey sandwich for him alongside my own lunch. The kid hardly eats anything. It's disturbing. I eat like a pig. My entire family eats like it's the end of the fucking world. Even Warren used to pretty much inhale his lunch. I'm not used to watching someone push stuff around on their plate, looking tired and sick and maybe he has an eating disorder? I try not to worry too much. He still ate half a sandwich and an entire plastic container of baby carrots. He's probably fine.

At night I sit awake, holding my manila folder and thanking God my stupid roommate has his reading light on. We're supposed to have our lights off by nine, which is ridiculous, because I've never gone to sleep that early in my life, and by the looks of it, Thomas hasn't either. I want to read more about Evan freaking Hansen. I want to find out why we're supposedly each other's best options. So I try to steady my breathing and I flip the damn folder open to the first page for the second time and I look a little closer, care a little more. I have to reread what I find twice.

The paper reads “Evan Hansen,” just like it did yesterday, but now I can see that right under that, in slightly smaller lowercase letters, it says “high risk.” What the fuck does that mean? It sounds like he's a nutjob or something. Forgive me for being somewhat incredulous, but the Evan I know seems pretty harmless. At least, I thought he seemed harmless. I falter. They always seem nice in the beginning, don't they? With that in mind, I try not to be too disappointed as I start to turn the page.


	2. Chapter 2

The folder doesn't say anything about Evan being "high risk" again. Not once. It's really kind of stupid. I mean, who starts out right off the bat with "he's dangerous as fuck" and then follows it up with "his favorite dessert is ube ice cream" like the first part never happened? Sure, it was cool learning that people make ice cream out of purple sweet potatoes and it actually tastes good, but it was also extremely dissatisfying to not get a single detail about the apparent risks of my weird, cute soulmate. Is he even really my "best match?" They could have just decided that at random. All in all, I wake up the next morning feeling very confused and also exhausted, because I got like two hours of sleep.

Class is shit. I can't stop falling asleep in math, and Hansen looks all worried, but instead of just asking if I'm okay like a normal person, he scrunches up his face and fiddles with his sleeves, and for fuck's sake he looks like a mouse. It's adorable. No, it's annoying, why can't he just say what he wants to and-- "Did you not get enough sleep last night?"

It's busts out of him like gunfire. Loudly. The entire class turns and blinks at him. Shit, I'm embarrassed just looking at him. I have probably the stupidest power imaginable, and it's always messing things up, and... I guess it suits me. Evan curls into himself, red as can be, mortified, and I just shake my head and shoot back a quiet, "What do you think?"

So I'm not the most sensitive of people. It's not like it matters. I can't tell if Evan's upset with me because he doesn't talk much anyway, and I've only known him for like, a day, but I proceed as if I don't really care what he thinks of me. That's what cool people do. School continues in much the same manner, sans Evan worrying and me accidentally forcing him to practically shout at me in the middle of class. I drift off halfway through a science worksheet, bullshit some annotations in English, and spend the entirety of history snoozing through the video Ms. Foran put on for us.

In that power-repression class, however, I'm hit with a brilliant idea. I'm a born hacker. Who cares if the folders they handed out don't have the information I need? I can cheat the system. I mean, it's not like I have anything better to do. Of course, it'll be harder than usual, considering they made me leave my laptop at home, but when has something like that ever stopped me in the past? I ignore Mr. Strench's lecture on the proper way to divert your energy from your powers into something else in favor of coming up with half-baked plans like "I'll break into an administrator's office" and "Thomas snuck that reading light in, maybe he brought other stuff too-- I'll search his bag."

My thoughts of learning Hansen's secrets are interrupted by Hansen himself approaching me after the bell rings. I don't even notice him at first, too busy gathering my stuff as quickly as possible so I can get hacking. I don't notice a lot of things. It's probably the ADHD. Evan gets my attention by tugging on the hood of my jacket, though, like a little kid on his mother's sleeve. He doesn't say anything. I'm tempted to make him say something, but I feel like I've done enough of that today. We aren't even meant to be using our powers.

Luckily, it turns out I didn't _need_ to make him. He was just working up the courage. "So, I was, I was wondering... if you'd maybe want to hang out or something?"

"Yeah, sure," I say, without really even thinking. Great. He could be a dangerous criminal, for all I know, and now I'm spending valuable time hanging out with him instead of learning more about that. Well, if I die tonight, I guess I've only got myself to blame. Myself and Evan's cute face.

Evan lets me decide where to go. I get the feeling he has a few ideas of his own, but he doesn't share and I don't push. This place is more like a city than a camp, really. A weird, lonely city of freaks at the base of the mountain. It covers a lot of ground, and there are houses for the staff, and all kinds of other buildings. There's even an ice cream shop, but we don't go there, because I feel like that's a little cheesy and date-like. Besides, they probably don't have ube ice cream. Instead, I take Evan to the comic book store at the edge of town. It's right up against the chainlink fence. I guess they have to entertain us geeks somehow, what with the lack of technology here.

The counter is manned by a guy who looks barely older than us. He has long, brown hair and a scowl that's probably permanently burned into his face. I wonder if this means we're allowed to get jobs. It makes sense. We still have to pay for things, and the cash our parents gave us will only last so long. Evan seems to be hiding from the guy at the counter. I guess he's scarier than me. Honestly, he just looks like one of those "edgy" fourteen year olds with the black clothes and the black nail polish-- yep, he's wearing black nail polish. Gee, he really is just a stereotypical emo kid. I shift my eyes to a rack of comics before he can get on my case for staring at him.

I've always liked comic books, even if a lot of them vilify people with powers. The plots of most comic books are fast-paced and simple. They're easy to skim. Easy to follow. I've read many of the comics displayed on this rack, and those that I haven't read don't interest me in the least. A few of them are trying too hard to be deep, and the rest are romance comics. Those weird manga jelly-pop love comics. You know the type. I'm not a fan of the romance genre. It's always shallow and boring. There'll be a sassy woman who swoons over some unrealistically hot guy, a damsel in distress, a brooding man being picked apart by some girl who's just desperate to fix him, a meet cute, a harem, it's all the same. If you're lucky, you'll stumble into some of that gay shit that focuses more on two people being gay than on an actual plot or connection between the characters. Books and movies are often not much better. Maybe I'm just bitter because I'll never have that kind of predictable, perfect love. Or maybe the genre is shit. Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's the problem here. The genre is shit.

I wonder, not for the first time, how long I've been staring off into space. Then I realize it's probably only polite to talk to Evan, since we're supposed to be hanging out or something, and I have to go looking for him. I find him standing across from some comics in the back, cradling his hands awkwardly against his chest as if he's afraid to pick one up. I've never met someone this high-strung. Maybe "high risk" just means he'll freak out over literally anything. I feel mean after thinking that, even if it's true.

"Hey," I hiss, jabbing a finger into his side. He jumps a little, like a rabbit. He's very rodent-like. Are rabbits even rodents? "Hansen. Why are you staring down the mystery section?"

He smiles, embarrassed, but apparently also happy to see me. Huh. That's a confidence boost. "I don't know, I was thinking of maybe getting something, but I wasn't sure and I, I don't know what I'd get anyway, so...."

I raise my eyebrows, amused, and turn to the shelf he was eyeing before I interrupted him. I've read a few of these, and some of them were even _good._ I grab one of my personal favorites and extend it to Evan, trying not to let on that it matters at all. "Get this one."

Evan purses his lips and takes it. He takes it gently, like he's dealing with a wounded animal, and somehow, this doesn't seem to be condescending. Rather, it feels comforting. Like he doesn't want to hurt me, not ever. Of course, at the moment he also looks troubled, which unsettles me, so I don't feel very comforted, all factors considered. _Why do you look troubled? Tell me,_ I think. It's wrong to think things like that when I have the power I do, but there's a reason I have that power in the first place. I hate it when people hide things from me. I used to wish I could read minds. It's only natural for me to wonder, to want people to tell me what they're thinking. I've always wanted to know, and now I can make them tell me. Of course I'm gonna make them tell me.

"I'm really, really glad you suggested this for me. It's just, well, I've already read it," Evan says, stumbling over each word. I laugh, because he wasn't going to mention that. It's such a silly thing to lie about. I guess Evan probably lies a lot, when he thinks it'll make people happy. Or when he's scared of messing up. It's a good thing he can't lie to me, then.

I feel sort of dizzy with relief now that I know that was all it was, enough to let something slip that I usually wouldn't. "Really? It's a good series. I've probably read it a hundred times. I'm not really that into the mystery genre as a whole, but honestly Detective Hall is a dreamboat and the plot ain't bad either."

This makes Evan snort, so I figure it wasn't too bad of a thing to say. Still, I should keep my guard up. Even if Evan maybe agrees, and he's nodding and saying, "Yeah. He was pretty much the ideal man."

"Come for the plot, stay for that hunky Hall guy," I crow. Evan's more than snorting now, and it makes me happy, so I keep my guard down for a bit. A few minutes like this can't hurt.

Later, in the relative safety of the room I share with Thomas, I beat myself up over that. Hurt? That stuff is what kills you. Besides, it's never _just_ a few minutes. Minutes turn to hours. Hours turn to days. Before you know it, you've wasted years on someone who wasn't even worth those first few minutes.

Thomas leaves for the shower, and I continue to gripe about my own stupidity as I search his bag. He's brought a lot of tea. Earl Grey, some citrus crap, caffeine free tea that makes you sleepy, name a tea and he's got it. Warren always made me happy. Dizzy and happy, like Evan. Weak in the knees, and later, safe. I didn't think Warren would hurt me either. Damn, this boy is prepared for the tea apocalypse. He even has some of those weird mushroom teas. I'm just about to give up when I drop a tea box on the ground and it pops open, and guess what spills out? Not tea, that's for fucking sure.

I open a few other boxes and tins, and find that almost none of them have tea in them. The only tea he actually brought is that sleepy-time stuff. Cute. The other containers are filled with plugs, earphones, flash drives, an Mp3 player, and a resounding _two_ phones. I wonder where he's keeping his laptop. The flash drives and many of the plugs would be useless if he wasn't bringing one. He probably has another electronic stash somewhere-- 

"Uh... why are you looking through my stuff?" Shit. Thomas must have finished his shower. That was a quick one. Maybe I should have timed him tonight, and gone in knowing how long I had tomorrow. He's leaning against the edge of his bed, wrapped in a towel, staring at me. _How mad are you, tell me how mad you are, shit, shit, shit,_ I think furiously.

"Are you a spy? Are you robbing me? Oh my god, I'm not even upset, my life has never been this exciting," Thomas says, and then he slaps both hands over his mouth and physically cringes. I blink maybe three times, stunned, before even reacting. And then I start practically crying, I'm laughing so hard. That's gotta be the most pathetic thing I've ever heard.

Thomas is red with shame. He opens and closes his mouth in a half-indignant motion, and then he points a finger at me accusingly. "You used your power! And, and you're rifling through my personal possessions! I could report you! Stop laughing. Oh my god, stop laughing!"

And I do stop laughing. I keep my mischievous smirk, however, waving a phone triumphantly over my head with some sort of wicked glee, crying, "Report me? Go ahead. I'll just report you, dipshit."

Defeated, he slumps down beside me and groans. I watch him rub tired, frustrated circles into his face with one hand, and I'm pleased with the way things turned out. The fantastic Jared Kleinman strikes again, manipulating even the worst of situations to his advantage! I plop down beside Thomas, still clutching the larger of his phones, and let the warm, happy feelings wash over me. Everything turned out okay. He's not mad. I can't help thinking of Warren's face, twisted with rage, unrecognizable. The happy feelings die all too quickly.

"So why were you messing around in my bag, anyway?" Thomas asks. His expression is all innocent curiosity and hope, and it makes me feel sick. I violated his privacy, and instead of getting mad, he's looking at me like I'm about to take him on an adventure. He's too trusting. He shouldn't trust me. I'm not worth those first few minutes.

"No reason," I mutter. That probably sounds ominous, or at least weird. Creepy, maybe. "Do you have a laptop?"

Thomas bites his lip and glances towards the dresser. That bit of skin above his nose wrinkles up in thought. I wonder if he's planning on telling me. He's really stupid, if that's the case. I could just go and check the dresser for it now, but that seems almost too cruel. At last he speaks, sounding suddenly sly and charismatic. "Nah, I left it at home. Why? _No reason._ I guess I just... felt like it. Why do you ask?"

Huh. I didn't think he had it in him. I'm kind of impressed. So, I decide I'll indulge him. Just this once. "Look, I'm trying to hack the record system here. Learn a little more about my 'perfect match,' if you know what I mean. Something's fishy about him. Like, the file they gave me called him 'high risk.' So... can you just hand over the laptop already? I know you have it."

Thomas drops the act and jumps up, headed straight for the dresser. "Man, this is so cool. Do you think it's illegal?"

"Probably not."

"Oh. I've always wanted to do something illegal. Break the law, vigilante style. Are you sure it's not against some kind of policy or--"

"Actually, yeah. We might even be executed. I just didn't want to scare you off. It's a risky business. I always have trouble finding people courageous enough to help me out," I say mournfully, lying through my teeth. It's a smooth recovery. Thomas' mood immediately brightens, and he nearly trips in his haste to bring the laptop over to me. I don't even feel guilty. I'm doing him a favor. Giving him the adventure he so clearly wants.

Once I've got my hands on the laptop, though, I realize I don't really know where to start. I don't actually know anything about the record system here. For all I know, they keep everything on paper file here. I feel very foolish all of a sudden. It would be too embarrassing to admit any of this aloud, so I tell Thomas to look away, muttering, "It's classified. Obviously."

Then I pretend I'm doing something for another two minutes before returning the laptop to him and saying, "I'll pick this up again tomorrow. I need to gather a bit more intel before I start in on the code. You know how it is."

Thomas believes me. Why wouldn't he? I was very convincing. I'm always pretty convincing. If I wasn't an expert at making shit up as I go, I'd have failed out of school a long time ago. I'd probably make a good improv actor. Or salesman. The point is, I've bought some time to do some digging on what exactly I'm trying to hack here, if I even need to hack anything. If all goes well, I'll know exactly what's wrong with Evan Hansen by the end of the week. And if all goes to shit... Thomas will probably still think I'm badass. So, I'll have that, if nothing else.

Before going to bed, I take a bag of Thomas' sleepy-time tea and head down to the kitchen. We all share the kitchen. It's like a common room. In many ways, I feel like I'm living in a college dorm. That would be nice. If my parents had sent me off to college, instead of a camp designed to fix me. If they wanted me to learn new things, instead of kill a part of me, like it's inherently evil and wrong. I wish this was a college dorm. 

To my surprise, Evan's in the kitchen when I get there, washing dishes. I'm pretty sure they have someone here that takes care of that, but I don't bother him. He looks peaceful. I stand and watch him for a minute from the doorway, teabag in hand. Then I turn around and go back upstairs, because it feels wrong to disturb him somehow, and I don't really feel like tea anymore, anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

You know, life really moves too quickly sometimes. One moment you're standing outside the kitchen, tired and sad as a goddamn slug, and the next you're hiding out in a janitor's closet, and your heart is beating impossibly fast, and your stupid roommate is crying on the floor, getting blood everywhere. I mean, it's not like he's fatally wounded, but blood is blood, and I'm kind of starting to hate blood. The smell disgusts me. It's so bitter.

I try to slow my breathing, try to think about the moments leading up to now, and I tell Thomas to shut the fuck up, because it's always harder to calm myself down when other people are freaking out too. He covers his face with his sleeve, sniffling and whimpering into it softly. He's going to stain his shirt with blood. It's a damn shame. That was a nice shirt, a pretty shade of blue... I squeeze my eyes shut. Everything's fine. It's not like they're _actually_ going to execute us. I'm letting the fantasies I fed Thomas get to me.

"They did come this way, didn't they?" A voice whispers harshly, not too far from the door I'm currently pressed into. My ears perk up. Metaphorically, of course. I'm not a fucking dog. Another voice says something unintelligible, and then the first continues. "Ah, well, even so... the Headmaster won't like this. We've been lax on the security lately, and now we're gonna pay for it. Maybe if we just got rid of the kids...."

I gulp. I don't really want to die today, and I especially don't want to die in this stupid closet, choking on the thick, gross smell of Thomas' blood. It's suddenly very hard to remember why I even wanted to come here in the first place. Curiosity, I guess. What's that saying? Curiosity killed the cat? Well, I'm not a fucking cat either.

"Thomas. Thomas," I hiss, sliding down the door to a crouching position beside him. He looks up at me with those lost, wide eyes, and I try to act like I'm feeling perfectly confident, because he needs a leader, and I'm the only other person here. I don't have a plan, but when do I ever have a plan? I'm an expert at making things up as I go. I can do this.

"Here's what we're gonna do. I'll make a run for it. You listen, and when I start screaming bloody murder, you go. Don't hesitate, and don't stop until you're out," I say, painfully slowly. I want to be clear. Stable and sure enough to be comforting. Thomas starts to protest, but I throw in a playful smirk and tell him not to worry, because I "probably won't die," and he seems pacified. His emotions are easy to sway. He's like a small child: soft and impressionable.

I rest my face against the door for another minute or so, listening for any sign of the voices from before, and when I hear nothing, I gather my courage, throw the door open, and run like I'm not terribly out of shape. If all goes well, we can both make it out of this alive. And if all goes to shit... at least I won't be dying inside that stuffy closet. I'll have that, if nothing else. So, I skid to a stop somewhere between the computer lab and the main office and screech like someone is sawing my fucking leg off. Hopefully they won't do anything like that. I'm not built for torture.

When they show up they have Thomas. I'm pretty annoyed by this, because it makes the whole self-sacrifice thing I did there pretty pointless, but I figure it was always gonna end up like this. Who was I kidding? Things never go _well._ They throw Thomas down beside me, and I start brainstorming clever last words. Thomas leans in close, bloody nose nearly up against my ear. "Jared, hold my hand."

I stare at him, dumbfounded. What did I ever do to deserve this bullshit? "Can we not end things off with an awkward love confession? I mean... this really isn't the time, Thomas."

"No, it's not that. Just, trust me, okay? Grab my hand, dude," he insists, sounding increasingly desperate. His voice pitches up at the end, and the sheer nervous energy of it reminds me of Evan. What the hell, it's the end of the world, for me at least. I can drop a few walls. I can trust.

I take hold of Thomas' hand with a sigh, and instantly I find myself transported to the floor of our bedroom. I'm still clutching that shaking, sweaty hand. I fall back against one of our beds, whichever is closest, and wipe my own hands off on my jeans. I breathe. And then I look Thomas straight in the eye and say, "What the fuck was that?"

"My power. I, uh... I teleport," Thomas pants, still recovering. He swipes at his nose, and I resist the urge to reach out and hold his arm so he'll stop. That's a really useful power. I'd be abusing the fuck out of it if it was mine.

I sit there and just breathe, until it hits me. Thomas can teleport. Thomas... has been able to teleport... this entire time. I feel a little betrayed when I finally realize the implications of this fact. "Why the hell didn't you do that sooner? We could have died, you dumb shit. We almost died. You could have done that in the fucking supply closet. You could have done that the minute they started chasing us!"

Thomas opens his mouth to speak, but I'm not done. "Wait. Oh my god, you could have just teleported us in and avoided the whole breaking and entering thing altogether! We could have been in and out, easy as a goddamn pie! What the fuck, Thomas?"

"Look, I have my reasons," Thomas says darkly. I flinch. "I didn't have to help you at all, you know. You talk a big game, but let's be real here. You'd never have pulled this off without me. So shut your pie-hole."

I nod stiffly and stand up, slow and deliberate. I could make Thomas explain everything, right here, right now, but I wouldn't do that. I'd never stoop to that level. Hopefully. Instead, I crack a joke. I usually do. "All this talk about pie is making me hungry. I'll be down in the kitchen, I guess."

I'm not actually hungry, and I don't go to the kitchen. I take a shower. I've always preferred a cold shower to a hot one, even in the wintertime. Especially then, actually. My mother was sensitive to the cold, so when it got chilly outside she would turn the heater up extra high. It was often hotter and sweatier in the winter than in the summer, back home. Here though, the bathrooms are cold, and I have to set the water to a lukewarm temperature that reminds me of soup after it sits for a while.

I sit on the cold tile and stew in my soup shower, thinking about how many feet have probably touched this floor, and about what I've learned today. Overall, I'm pretty sure I've learned enough today to match my years of schooling and raise it one. I think about Evan Hansen. I think about Thomas. I think about this fucked up school and the woman who runs it. Mostly, I think about exactly how I got myself into this big, fat mess.

While "gathering intel," as I so aptly described it before, I stumbled across something very interesting. That something was a big, iron door at the end of the left wing of the school. Now, the thing about this school is we only have class in two different wings, but when you look at the building from the outside, you can clearly see that there's more to it. I realized immediately that this door was the key. I fantasized constantly about what could be behind it, and since I was still unsure of what to hack, I started to consider doing something crazy, like I don't know, finding a way past it. Maybe the answers would be behind that door. I stopped thinking clearly, obsessed with the thought of learning more.

When Thomas finally approached me and asked me when I was going to need his laptop again, I had all but dismissed the possibility of hacking the system. I told him there'd been a slight change of plans. In retrospect, if I'd wanted to do this without him, I should have just pretended to use his computer for a few minutes. As it was, he insisted on tagging along. Lucky for me, amirite?

Anyway, once we'd worked out how to get the door open-- this cost us five whole nights and money to pay off the janitor-- we slipped in some time after lights out, armed with nothing but a mini flashlight. At first, it seemed kind of normal. A few offices for the administrators, an empty computer lab, the usual. Well actually, something about that computer lab struck me as odd, so we decided to check it out. It turned out I was right. The computers all required some kind of fancy password. Suspicious, right? If they were meant for students they'd just have the normal log-in screen. I managed to get past one of the computer's defenses and take a look at its files, but I didn't get very far before the security guards caught sight of us. What I did read was pretty spooky, though.

The shower runs cold, and I decide it's probably best if I get back to the room. We're supposed to be asleep by now already, and to be honest, I could use some actual rest. I've always been a bit of an insomniac, but lately I've been running on nothing but caffeinated tea from the communal kitchen and willpower. Plus, it'll be nice to get away from everything. I shut off the water with a quiet sigh and step out, shivering from the cold... or my nerves. 

The first thing I notice when I get back to the room is that Thomas is nowhere to be seen. I consider looking for him, but then I remember that he could literally be anywhere. So instead I settle down and think about Evan Hansen, and how frustrating it is that after everything that went down tonight, I still don't know any more about him than I did yesterday. Maybe I could just ask about the high-risk thing? Sure, he could lie, but what if I made him be honest? It's for a good cause. I need to know if he's dangerous. 

Despite my original intentions, aka going to sleep, I can't help but lie awake in bed for another hour or two. There's so much to think about. For example, do I want to get out of this place, or do I secretly want to stay? If I go with the former, how on earth am I supposed to get out of here? Could I even go home? If not, where would I live? Should I tell Evan about all of this? It's weird that I'm even considering that. I mean, I barely know him. He could still be totally dangerous! Even so, I'm a little worried about him. What if this place does even worse things to high risk kids than the normies? They could kill him. Or like, replace his brain and send him home. Maybe they'll keep him locked up? I fall asleep eventually, but when I wake up I can tell my dreams were nightmares.

  
  
_"Jared? Are you sure we shouldn't be checking the offices?" Thomas whispers, trembling. I frown and scroll through the files, scanning for anything interesting. Yearbook stuff, emails, etcetera, etcetera._

_"That's just what they'd expect us to do. There'll probably be alarms in there or something. Is it not fishy that they have a computer lab in a strictly administrative area? This is where we'll find the good stuff," I bite back, finally clicking into a file titled "finalstage.pdf," and settling in to read with a crack of my knuckles. The first few paragraphs are a note from the Headmaster. Intriguing. She writes that the new plan she's devised has been tested and is ready to be used throughout the school. After that, the plan itself is described in great detail. My eyes widen, and I start to read my findings aloud to Thomas in a hushed, horrified sort of way. "See, get a load of this: 'halfway through the second semester, give injections disguised as routine vaccinations.' It says they're gonna destroy our powers from the inside out with these weirdo black market drugs!"_

_Thomas taps his fingers against the table nervously. I continue reading, mumbling just a little too quietly for Thomas to make out. "'It will target the source of the problem, rather than the symptoms. Since powers are specialized and come to exist only when one bears an intense, soul-encompassing desire, the only way to properly remove them...'" I inhale sharply. "'Is to erase any and all memories associated with the desire that created the supernatural ability in question.' Fuck. Fuck, fuck. There's more? Something about the high risk kids, like Ev--"_

_I hear footsteps in the hallway._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this one being shorter. I started it a long time ago, and finishing it was sort of awkward. Hopefully the next chapter will be at least a thousand words longer, with a shorter wait time as well.


End file.
